


Veritas

by AndreaLyn



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the truth gets you in the most trouble, especially when you've been keeping secrets. And when the truth is forced out of you, it's open game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Veritas

“Seal it!” Merlin shouts above the deafening noise. Galahad stares uneasily into the depth, the knife against the palm of his hand and glinting coolly. Gawain keeps close to him, affected slightly by the tug of the rift. His other hand slips and steadies himself on the small of Galahad’s back. Bors seems to be having trouble down on the ground, binding Galahad’s ankles to the floor to make sure he isn’t disrupted in their ritual. “Seal it now!” Merlin shouts.  
  
Galahad closes his eyes.  
  
And with one sure stroke, he makes the incision into his hand.  
  
***  
  
Four days prior, they hadn’t known better.  
  
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Bors grumbles.   
  
“You’re not alone,” Gawain mutters to himself, crossing his arms and pacing around outside the door to Guinevere’s makeshift quarters. Bors stands tall and proud in front of the door, while Galahad sits on a box somewhere down the hall, his eyes drooping from exhaustion. He’d been undergoing many surgeries after a skirmish of late with the Saxons and had been losing blood on and off. The Knights were in concordance that the Romans were at fault. “You don’t meddle with the dead, that’s the first lesson my mother taught me,” Gawain goes on sagely.   
  
“She also taught you never to pick a fight with a Roman,” Galahad adds tiredly. “But a lot of good that did you.”  
  
“You’ve met my mother once,” Gawain shoots at him. “And when you did, it was a passing hello while the Romans collected me. Don’t presume.”  
  
“She took me aside,” Galahad continues, looking up and despite his pale-faced demeanor, gives Gawain the best challenging look he can, “and warned me about the great sin in her son while outlining many rules I should follow to live a good and pure life.”  
  
“And that’s served you well,” Gawain snorts. “Shall we ask the ladies of the tavern if it’s worked?”  
  
“His mum took pity on a young whelp then, eh?” Bors grunts to Galahad. The sound of hushed voices come from inside the chambers and they silence themselves until the voices have all but died down, accompanied by the sound of something crashing to the ground and a loud, “Guinevere!” to accompany it, whether it’s Merlin or Arthur, they can’t tell. “Why are we here?” Bors grumbles, his posture slouching slightly. “Don’t we have a celebration to plan before the now-grown whelp leaves us?”  
  
Gawain silently turns to Galahad, measuring the reaction on his face – a pale and bland one. Gawain does not once take his eyes off him, making sure that Galahad won’t keel over the exhaustion or the lack of blood. And Gawain is interested in hearing this answer. All along, he’s been saying that Galahad will back out of this. He would never return to Sarmatia alone. Yet, the morrow would be when it happened.  
  
“I hope you’re buying me a great many drinks,” Galahad finally responds with a great grin.   
  
“In your state?” Bors laughs. “It’d take one to knock you out.”  
  
“Yes,” Galahad replies wearily. “The question is, will you supply the one?”  
  
“I’ll buy you the drink,” Gawain shakes his head. The door to the quarters opens and Arthur stands there in the doorway, solemnly beckoning them in. Gawain pauses and helps Galahad up with one hand. “If we survive this, of course.”  
  
“You’re so very kind,” Galahad mutters mockingly under his breath as they file into the darkened room, taking care not to step into the circle of sand made around the middle of the room.   
  
Gawain twitches uneasily. He’s never enjoyed being so close in proximity to Merlin. It makes his skin itch and his brain seem to crawl with anxieties. His gaze automatically jumps to either side, checking to see that Arthur is alert, then to the other, checking to see whether Galahad is all right. He allows his gaze to linger on Galahad before being brought back to attention by Merlin’s voice.   
  
“I have made all the preparations,” he speaks slowly with even words, diplomatic to the last consonant. “You are here to witness and fuel the ritual of crossing the divide between the living and the dead in order to speak to the knights who have already crossed the divide.”   
  
Gawain shifts uneasily.  
  
“Join hands,” Merlin advises, closing his eyes and spreading his hands out wide.   
  
Arthur and Guinevere are quick to form a bond, sharing a quick and lingering look that brims with love that threatens to spill over. Gawain is temporarily amazed at how quickly Arthur seems to have forgotten about the one he lost, but then again, this whole supernatural show was Arthur’s suggestion to close off the door to the deceased knights. Of course, he said knights in general, but Gawain knew of only one that Arthur truly wants to speak to. Bors grunts once more before roughly taking Guinevere’s hand – to which Guinevere gives a sharp and pointed, “ow” – and Gawain’s hand.  
  
There’s a moment of pause as Gawain looks to Galahad and panics. He overcomes it quickly and takes Galahad’s hand into his own, threading his fingers in between Galahad’s and enjoying the feel of their warmth. He offers Galahad a small, nervous smile, which is returned with ease. They do not break their gaze until the quiet, rhythmic chants of Merlin penetrate the air, quietly building in both volume and intensity.   
  
With every word, there is a feminine echo, a quiet murmur.  
  
Guinevere translates.  
  
“Here in this place, we are common, we are gathered.”  
  
The air ripples with something that feels like wind, but something innately more powerful to its core. It’s as though energy is being swiftly carried through the room, coursing through their bodies as though in waves. The objects in Guinevere’s quarters begin to tremble, shake, and shift around. Gawain looks around with a sort of panic, but then all his attention is drawn above the centre of the circle where reality is ripping away, a hole tearing into the air and exploding with sound, wind, and light.   
  
Merlin continues with his words.  
  
“We commune with dark spirits to speak, we request a connection!” Guinevere shouts above the sound, translating.   
  
Gawain feels the grip on his one hand tighten and he looks to see Galahad in obvious pain, gritting his teeth and sweating profusely. Gawain’s gaze immediately jumps to the bandages on Galahad’s arms and he sees that they’re quickly becoming soaked with blood. A part of Gawain is desperate to shout out to  _stop_  because they’re hurting Galahad, but his voice is trapped.   
  
The lights in the room coming from that strange rift in reality swirl blue and white and black, creating an entire effect of strange, kaleidoscope colours. Merlin's arms shake as he holds them up, strong to the source of these lights. He shouts into the abyss in their common tongue now. "Hear us, spirits, hear the voice of us. I seek the voice of those gone past, I seek those who have moved on." Everything in the room begins to shake violently and move, the tables shifting, the drapes fluttering, the tug of the hole in the room now too strong to just ignore. It tears at their clothes, tugging them closer.  
  
It tugs at the bandages on Galahad's arms, ripping them off. Gawain watches in amazement as droplets of blood fly towards the crackling portal.  
  
"We come to you as seekers of truth, we come..." Merlin thunders, but his voice is the only sound in the room as the gateway closes off with an enormous pop, a great burst of air pushing out to the walls of the room so powerful that it sends everyone to the ground. "No," Merlin mutters, getting up – but not without a struggle. “No!” he shouts, his voice echoing with anger and disbelief.   
  
"Oh, god," Arthur mutters into the floor, not getting up.   
  
"There's quite a bit of pain right now," Galahad growls out, his hands clutching onto his wounds – which are bleeding profusely – in a vain attempt to stop the blood from flowing. Gawain scrambles to Galahad’s side, tearing off the sleeves of his shirt and fighting the force bearing down upon him that is making it difficult to breathe, let alone move. He immediately starts to bandage the wounds with clean cloth, looking in amazement as blood spills over Galahad’s arms, pooling on the ground, all the while Galahad inhales sharp gasps of air. Gawain frowns, tending to him quickly, grasping at the fallen curtains and using them to pool up the blood. “Gawain,” Galahad hisses, his breathing quick. “Gawain, if I…”  
  
“It didn’t work,” Merlin’s voice interrupts, his tone gloomy. “The portal has closed, and there is blood on the ground. We have awakened blood magic,” he spits out, staring accusingly at Galahad. Gawain glares back on Galahad’s behalf before returning to the wounds and patching them up.  
  
“What does that mean?” Guinevere demands, already back on her feet.   
  
“It means it did not work,” her father retorts. They slip into their native tongue, quibbling hotly while Gawain loses himself in making sure Galahad is okay while Bors and Arthur hover over his shoulder. The amount of blood is making Gawain more than a bit uneasy about the nature of these wounds and the dark arts they have invoked.   
  
“I think he’ll be fine,” Gawain turns to speak to Arthur.  
  
“Strange,” Arthur comments, shaking his head. “Galahad, how do you feel?”  
  
“Better,” Galahad sits up, shaking his head. He wipes his hands on his tunic and studies the room. Gawain notes that the pale colouring on his face has now completely disappeared and his cheeks even appear to be flushed red. His hand still clasps onto Gawain’s wrist tightly, as though afraid to let go. “In fact, as though I’d never been injured in the first place,” he comments with wonder, fidgeting with one of the cloths to untie it. Once he did, Gawain stares in shock. That same wound that had bled so freely had nearly completely healed up now.  
  
“That’s…”  
  
“That’s impossible,” Bors finishes Gawain’s sentence for him.   
  
Galahad lets go of Gawain and touches upon the scars slowly and reverently, looking up and grinning childishly. He quickly undoes the other bandages to find the same effect. It is as though someone or something or some  _force_  has come along and healed him.  
  
“A miracle,” Arthur murmurs under his breath, his gaze captivated.   
  
“He is a miracle, at that,” Gawain grins and murmurs under his breath, ducking his head down so no one hears his words. He gets to his feet, brushing his hands off and offering both hands to Galahad in order to balance him as he stands. Galahad gives him a brilliant smile as though he’s heard the words and he lavishes quite a bit of attention on Gawain before turning to Bors.  
  
“Now, about those drinks…”  
  
***  
  
Merlin had pushed them out of the room quite quickly, still in the heat of an argument with Guinevere, the words making no sense to any of them assembled. Arthur had lingered at the door for a moment, but Bors had tugged him away, muttering something about, “pointless.”  
  
Gawain had gone straight to his quarters instead of opting to train one last time with Galahad. He had gone without so much as a word and had closed the door behind him, barricading it up. He knows it’s not the best thing to do, not when Galahad is there for so short of a time now, but he still has to try and come up with the best, most tactful argument to get Galahad to stay.   
  
Galahad’s desire to leave had come from nowhere, really.   
  
One day, Galahad had returned from the graveyard with a resolute expression on his face and he had loudly announced, “I’m going back to Sarmatia.” He said no more than those five words in that tone he seemed to be so sure of before grinning brilliantly, like the sun had descended and taken on human form. Everyone had frozen because while they all spoke of returning to Sarmatia, they were content to stay where they were in each other’s company.  
  
“You’re what?” Gawain had been the first to speak, sure all this was a joke.   
  
“I want to go back to Sarmatia,” Galahad had repeated enthusiastically, but not to Gawain. He had looked everywhere  _except_  in Gawain’s direction. “It’s long past time I returned. I’ve no clue why I’ve stayed here in the first place. I’m going home.”  
  
“Why?” Gawain had been the one to ask, and that had gained Galahad’s attention.  
  
The only words he received in retort had been, “Why not?”  
  
Gawain had not challenged him.  
  
Of course, now he’s scrambling to clasp onto any desperate reason to get him to stay. The wounds on Galahad’s arms were going to be his plan, but ever since the ‘miracle’, that reason had disappeared as quickly as the bleeding had. Gawain’s uneasy about the truth, as it would too easily make things awkward between them. He’s received a fair number of Galahad’s grins and his words, but those grins and words have been directed at far too many people for Gawain to be sure of them or himself. It is too much of a chance to not have those emotions returned. So the truth is out of the picture as well.   
  
He wonders quickly if he can get Galahad drunk enough to pass out and miss a full day. It’s a long shot, but Gawain is getting desperate. He also supposes he could pay off a girl and have her convince Galahad to stay, if only for one more day after he beds her and they whisper sweet nothings to each other. That idea makes Gawain slightly uneasy because it may not work, and it may simply leave Gawain to say goodbye to Galahad while in a foul mood.   
  
There’s a hard knock at his door that seems to tell him that his time for deliberations is through.  
  
“Gawain!”  
  
And fate of all fates is a bitch, Gawain snorts, for of course it is Galahad who they have sent to fetch him. Gawain rouses himself and plasters a smile on his face, feeling tired and worn. He opens the door to find Galahad – not bouncing, not grinning, merely standing there. Gawain strips himself quickly of his blood-soaked shirt, grasping a clean one and changing quickly.  
  
“It’s time for the tavern,” Galahad advises quietly, walking off without saying another word or waiting for Gawain to join him. Gawain has to nearly chase after him just to keep up.   
  
“You say it like it’s a death march,” Gawain mutters.   
  
“It’s not exactly as happy as a wedding celebration,” Galahad snaps over his shoulder, “but it isn’t a funeral either.”  
  
“This was your choice,” Gawain shoots back at him. The two of them walk in silence, side by side, until they reach the wooden tables of the tavern where Bors, Arthur, and even Guinevere await them. Vanora is already pouring drinks, but it’s extremely quiet without the majority of the Roman army there – the only ones who stay are men who feel that Arthur can lead them better than a pure-Roman ever could. The only ones at the tavern are a meager offering of locals and a few remaining soldiers.  
  
“Finally,” Bors belches when he sights the two of them. “I thought you might have run off without saying goodbye.”  
  
“I was thinking about it,” Galahad admits, blinking in confusion. Gawain catches this slip and looks at him curiously. It’s not like Galahad to agree with Bors; he’s more the type to argue. Well, he’s more the type to argue with anyone provided the sun has gone up in the sky. Galahad himself seems to be curious as to his own words, but he shakes his head and the confusion dissipates.   
  
They sit and the drinks are placed in front of them. The sun still hangs in the sky and the mood around them is quite dismal as they slowly drink, no one taking the chance to speak aloud.   
  
“I never thought you’d be the first to leave,” Arthur finally murmurs. “In my heart, everything pointed towards Gawain being the first to head away.”  
  
“I think we expected that,” Bors chimes in.   
  
Galahad chuckles uneasily, his gaze turning back to Gawain. They keep their gazes locked for a moment before the moment seems to pass when they simultaneously drink from their mugs.  
  
“What did your father say about this morning?” Galahad inquires to Guinevere, unfailingly polite.   
  
“He says it shouldn’t have been done,” Guinevere replies sharply, her gaze – as wicked as a swing for the kill – aimed towards Arthur. Gawain looks away, not wanting to be a part of this particular lover’s quarrel. “And I agree.” The two of them wind up bickering quietly, arms flying everywhere and then Arthur says something that quiets her completely because they turn their attention back to Galahad.  
  
“Are you all ready then?” Guinevere inquires pleasantly.  
  
“Mostly,” Galahad replies, speaking into his mug. “I keep hesitating to pack everything up, but item by item, it all gets put away.”  
  
Gawain takes a long drink, staring down at the table. He opens his mouth to tell a joke or give some other lighthearted comment to keep everything happier than it really is, but when he does speak, the words that come out are, “Don’t go.”  
  
A great silence overtakes their table as Galahad frowns. “Why?”  
  
“Because I’m not going with you,” Gawain answers almost immediately, though he knows he’s never meant to say these words aloud. He feels his eyes widening and his jaw dropping slightly and he wills himself to keep quiet, but he just can’t. “You’re supposed to be with me,” he adds possessively and claps his hand over his mouth to stop anything else from tumbling out unwanted.   
  
“Gawain, you’ve never said any of this before,” Galahad replies, his tone awestruck and confused. He reaches across the table and pries Gawain’s hand off his mouth, pinning it to the table with his own.   
  
“No,” Gawain agrees. “But I should have,” he continues, finding that maybe this needs to be said. It seems that not just their table has gone silent now, and instead the whole of the tavern is sitting there in deadly quiet, just listening to their conversation. “I don’t know why I’ve gone so many years without saying it, but I have always wanted you fiercely, Galahad. You haunt me in too many dreams to count now and I constantly wonder why I’ve not taken you for my own.”  
  
“You…” Galahad starts faintly, blinking. He shakes his head and his words return this time with a fierce fire behind them. “Why have you never said anything, you idiot? I have loved you for  _years_ and you can’t even speak your desire aloud?”  
  
With the words out of his mouth, Galahad pales and Gawain sits back as though he were slapped with a cold palm. They both stare at each other.  
  
“You…” Gawain murmurs, his eyebrows slowly rising. “Galahad, I…”  
  
Before he can say anything else in return, Galahad gets up with a great show of noise, knocking his chair down to the ground and storming off without even another word. Gawain sits there, stunned completely and staring straightforward. He searches to find his voice and when it doesn’t come, he very slowly gets up and walks away in the opposite direction of the way Galahad has gone.  
  
He slams his door behind him when he reaches his quarters and slumps down against the wood of the frame. Those words at the tavern that had slipped past his lips unwanted and unbidden…he would recognize them anywhere. They were the words he denied himself saying for fear they weren’t returned, but now he knew that they were. If Gawain had been speaking the truth, then Galahad could have been as well.  
  
Something has gone wrong.   
  
 _Merlin_ , Gawain realizes.  _Something that happened this morning; his accusation of invoking blood magic. Truth-seekers…_  
  
The truth.   
  
Galahad loved him.  
  
***  
  
“Well, that was expected,” Bors comments back at the tavern, finishing off yet another mug of ale. He pushes it aside to join the other fallen mug-soldiers on the table, dwarfing Arthur’s contribution. Guinevere doesn’t believe in drinking. She thinks it vile and a pollutant to her body. She has little care for all this talk and she hasn’t seen enough of Arthur’s knights to automatically know that the display was something expected.  
  
All she knows is that something is terribly wrong.  
  
She taps her fingers against her cheek in thought as Bors and Arthur converse over a battle strategy of some sort. Her father had been very scant with his details, murmuring on and on about finding some sort of solution to this. He had biting remarks for all the Knights involved, not just Galahad. He had stormed off, telling Guinevere that he would be back within a day or so.   
  
It seems to her that everything had taken a rather…well…  
  
“Arthur,” she murmurs distractedly. “Tell Bors what happened between us the first night we arrived back.”  
  
“You seduced me and we slept together,” Arthur replies immediately, then freezing in shock. “I…oh most merciful lord, help me,” he turns his head to the sky and murmurs quickly. She grins in triumph, effectively slaps him once across the face and stands up.   
  
“I know what’s happening,” she announces.  
  
“Well, then, out with it,” Bors urges.  
  
“It’s the truth.”  
  
***  
  
Gawain tosses and turns in his bed, unable to fall to sleep. It’s too hot of a night and his mind is clouded with thoughts of whether to track down Galahad and do something –perhaps  _say_ something to make things right. Perhaps he can even convince Galahad to stay now or to at least let Gawain go with him. Instead, he opts to rest and try again in the morning.   
  
The moon has risen in the sky now and Gawain still can’t sleep, his mind running with a thousand different thoughts all at once, trying to pinpoint Galahad’s love for him and when exactly it had happened. He wonders as to how they’re going to fix their current situation and he wonders just how much more he would have said had Galahad not stormed away.   
  
He goes back to the safe thoughts of repairing the damage and he wonders if it really was Galahad’s blood that had affected all of this and…  
  
His door is slammed open and then shut, breaking through Gawain’s thoughts.   
  
Gawain frowns, standing up. “Galahad, what are you…?” he begins to ask, but Galahad grasps him by the biceps and pushes him to the wall, pinning Gawain’s arms above his head and leaning in to fiercely kiss him, his lips not hesitating once and his kiss a searing attack. Gawain mumbles and murmurs, his eyes wide and confused as his back absorbs the blow to the wall. Then he tilts his head back slightly, allowing Galahad’s teeth to sink down and tug at his lower lip.   
  
“Don’t stop,” Gawain advises when Galahad backs away slowly, looking hesitant and unsure of himself. “Galahad,” Gawain warns as Galahad takes steps away towards the door. He shakes his head. It is  _not_  going to happen like this. “No,” he murmurs, catching Galahad by the wrist. He takes hold of Galahad – who doesn’t even fight back – and shoves him to the bed, immediately straddling him, shifting to make himself comfortable.   
  
“I’m still leaving in the morning,” Galahad warns, his eyes shining and his face flushed.  
  
“We’ll see,” Gawain responds.   
  
“If you had said something,” Galahad murmurs, “I wouldn’t be leaving in the first place.”  
  
Gawain does not respond to this. Instead, he backs off slightly and roughly begins to stroke his hands up and down Galahad’s thighs, slipping under the fabric of the tunic, gripping at the thighs. Galahad’s back arches upwards violently as Gawain’s nails dig into the skin before sliding down and back up in a smooth rhythm, exploring his upper legs.   
  
“I’ve always wondered,” Gawain quietly laughs, his body shaking with laughter, “what was under here.”  
  
“You could find out,” Galahad advises, his words slow and pointed as he spreads his legs slightly, enough for Gawain’s thumbs to fall from resting atop the thighs into the new crevice between Galahad’s legs, slipping to skirt and brush the inner thighs.   
  
Gawain moves his hands up and down the thighs once more, letting his hands linger on Galahad’s knees for a moment before moving them away and off his skin, resting one palm flatly on Galahad’s chest as he leans in slowly now and cradles Galahad’s neck with the other hand in order to kiss him senseless; every emotion that Gawain has kept pent up letting itself out through the kiss. Slowly, the kiss builds until it is sparked into being hotter, into being faster, into being rougher, until the sound of struggling moans is all they hear.   
  
Gawain slips from his tentative position when he pushes forward to taste more. He falters slightly, his mouth falling across Galahad’s face and he changes his focus to biting down at Galahad’s neck while he gets his knees securely snug around Galahad’s hips. Gawain backs away for a quick moment, just one moment to study Galahad over, his hands still roving and groping at his body – getting the feel of him – but Galahad seems to have none of it, threading his hands into Gawain’s hair and forcibly  _tugging_  him down to bring their mouths into another rough kiss.   
  
Gawain lets out a sharp sound when Galahad doesn’t take his hands out of the mess of his hair and instead begins to caress his fingers around the braids, the pads of his fingertips lightly massaging his scalp before traveling down, feeling the braids, tangling into the hairs while Gawain bites down against Galahad’s lower lip, pushing his tongue into Galahad’s mouth and thrusting forward.   
  
His hips hitch upwards, pushing and pinning Galahad to the bed with one strong thrust, then Gawain uses his arms to pin Galahad’s wrists down as well. The kiss is powerful and Gawain releases all the long months of pent-up desire, all the dreams that leave him aroused and desperate in the morning. He lets it all out as he kisses Galahad so hard that he finds himself out of breath.   
  
“Gawain,” Galahad breathes out hoarsely when they part.  
  
Gawain pulls away, breathing raggedly, his hands shakily navigating between their bodies and tugging the material of the tunic up from the belt, undoing the latches and the knots as quickly as he can, teeth making a trail of marks down Galahad’s jaw as he does.   
  
Gawain edges back slightly, just to get a better view of his hands so he can get the tunic off. His fingers slip and he returns his focus to the task at hand, trying to do his best to just keep _focused_  so he can get Galahad undressed.   
  
“Don’t,” Galahad warns desperately, his voice sounding low, quiet, possessive, “stop.”  
  
“I wasn’t planning to,” Gawain mutters back, not looking at Galahad, but instead fixating on the intricate loops of the belt. He grins victoriously when he finally pries it loose and throws it to the side, sliding and shifting Galahad out of the tunic as quickly as he can. He finds his hands are skittish as he gets closer and closer to Galahad’s skin, and he’s almost afraid… “Galahad, what if I can’t?” he voices it aloud.  
  
“Can’t what?” Galahad replies hoarsely. His hands are snugly tucked into Gawain’s breeches, undoing them from the inside.   
  
“I want this to be good,” Gawain murmurs, pushing the tunic off slowly. “I want this to be perfect. What if I can’t make this perfect?”  
  
“I don’t care about perfect,” Galahad quickly retorts, his eyes flashing with something that looks like desperation. The whole demeanor of his face quickly falls into a territory that can only be aptly known as pleading. He thrusts his hips upwards, creating friction between them and evoking a pleased groan from Gawain. “I’m happy so long as it’s you.”  
  
Gawain inches backwards, scrambling to balance himself on his knees as he sinks to the floor, staring up at Galahad while taking his shirt off over his head and sending his braids into a wild array of a mess. He looks up to find Galahad staring down at him, his lips pink and wet from his tongue making sweeping passes over his lower lip. Galahad’s cheeks are flushed and they sit there frozen for a moment, just staring at each other. Gawain rises slowly, nudging one knee along the outside of Galahad’s right thigh, the contact slow and deliberate, making Galahad shiver and causing his skin to erupt into tiny bumps.  
  
“Just you,” Galahad murmurs, his head falling back as he closes his eyes. “You,” he repeats, reclining until his back lays flat upon the bed. Gawain brings his other foot up, balancing properly and finding a way to lie perfectly even over Galahad, Gawain’s ribcage settling down neatly into Galahad’s, but thrown into chaos the first time Galahad inhales deeply.   
  
“I’m here,” Gawain says quietly, too much of a whisper for it to be heard, but knowing it served its purpose. He shifts slightly to try and get as much friction as he can, thrusting forward and letting out a relieved sigh when he finds the right angle. Galahad gives a choked cry, murmuring something under his breath.  
  
It continues like this, this movement in sharp, staccato thrusts forward, accompanied by Gawain’s grunts and the beginnings of language from Galahad until the murmurings finally seem to take the form of words.  
  
“What?” Gawain slows, doesn’t stop. “What?”  
  
“More than this. Inside,” Galahad orders. “Inside of  _me_.”  
  
Gawain freezes, catching Galahad’s gaze. They lie there breathing in utter silence, the sound of their bodies moving against the sheets and moving against each other making sounds that seem deafening. From outside, the light crunch of twigs filter inside and the dull echo of voices hit their ears. Gawain tries to pry himself off of Galahad, trying to find something to smooth his way inside of Galahad’s body, but Galahad’s wrist catches him before he can escape. He tumbles back down onto Galahad, who sits up slowly, arranging Gawain’s legs to wrap around his hips.   
  
“Galahad, I need to…” Gawain protests, blinking in confusion. Before he can continue, Galahad takes Gawain hands into his own and bringing them to his mouth. Very slowly, he takes each of the fingers on Gawain’s right hand and covers them with his mouth, taking them in deeply and coating them with a thin sheen of saliva. Gawain’s confusion drifts away as he presses his lips together, relishing the feel of Galahad’s lips puckering over each finger. Galahad takes his time in the process, finally taking Gawain’s palm and roughly spitting into it more than once, bringing the moment back into reality as though being shoved back into it.   
  
“Use that,” Galahad demands, taking Gawain by the wrist now and pushing it down between their torsos. Gawain allows his wrist to go limp and lets Galahad guide his motions, stroking slowly before pushing the slick fingers inside of Galahad’s opening, invoking a small gasp from Galahad.   
  
Galahad looks up from the interlocking of their bodies to Gawain’s eyes.  
  
“Have you ever…?” he asks quietly, his voice trailing off.  
  
Gawain frowns, curses under his breath. He tries to form other words than the one he knows is the truth, but even the idea of telling a lie quickly becomes unfathomable under this vile hex. “Yes,” he admits.  
  
“With a man?”  
  
“Yes,” Gawain can’t stop it from coming out. “You?”  
  
There’s enough time for a deep breath.   
  
“Yes,” Galahad exhales and it stuns Gawain slightly to know that he’s not the first to take possession of his Galahad. “Only the once, only once to know that I didn’t hate it, but it still wasn’t you. You wouldn’t leave my head or my heart, you bastard,” Galahad teases lightly, the weight of the words betraying his tone. Gawain pushes his palm flatly on Galahad’s chest, cradling his descent until Galahad’s back hits the sheets. Gawain lets his hand linger there, trying to slow down the moment before using his other hand to slowly lift one of Galahad’s legs up to rest upon Gawain’s shoulder as he shifts and moves so that he’s in line so that he won’t inflict pain.   
  
“Yes,” Galahad whispers now, this time a word simply meant to be released into the air as Gawain pushes in, abandoning the slow pace in the face of the desperate desire that floods him when he realizes that he’s been waiting for this for  _too_  long now. His hands form vice-grips on Galahad’s hips as he closes his eyes, pushing in and receiving a gasp of a cry from Galahad that’s enough to make Gawain open his eyes and simply  _watch_  the reactions flit over Galahad’s face. He tries desperately to memorize them, memorize this, just in case Galahad does leave in the morning.   
  
He pushes in faster, his nails digging into Galahad’s hips, his whole body thrusting forward with every push, every single push sending a wave of heat through him – because while this may not be Galahad’s first, he’s still tight enough for it to be enough for Gawain to be surprised about. With every thrust, he receives a cry of pleasure from Galahad, each one louder than the last.   
  
Gawain indulges in the feeling of each thrust, his hands surging forward now – dislodged from their place on Galahad’s hips – and grip onto his shoulders, finding the muscles and kneading at them as he continues to thrust in, faster and faster, every single emotion and spark of lust he’s been keeping inside letting itself out in this mad horizontal dance. He sweats and he groans and he cries out Galahad’s name like he’s been calling it out to dark shadows for years. He watches as Galahad writhes beneath him, allowing Gawain to find the perfect spot to bring about that cry of ecstasy from Galahad’s lips.   
  
“Yes,” Galahad hisses out once more as he climaxes, the single word contorting and twisting from loudest heights and dipping down to a base growl. “Gawain,” he murmurs reverently as his back arches and he surges forward, kissing Gawain heatedly as Gawain finds himself peaking.   
  
Galahad opens his mouth and allows Gawain’s tongue to slip in, clumsily and roughly kissing him as he continues to thrust – his rhythm dispelled; each heave forward falling into a pattern in disarray. Galahad moans into his mouth and Gawain feels his muscles clench and then release completely as he orgasms, the sensations all hitting him at once and nearly shocking him into stillness as he climaxes and then slumps down atop Galahad, distractedly kissing him still, their lips not quite meeting perfectly – and sometimes not at all – and their teeth clashing, Gawain tugging at Galahad’s lower lip while he snakes his arms around him and hold him there.   
  
When they part finally, a hazy feeling of drowsiness floods Gawain. He murmurs incoherently and softly while working to get his knee in between Galahad’s legs and does his best to intertwine their bodies together, his eyes only half-open now. He rests his head on the collarbone of Galahad’s torso, his hair bristling against the skin.   
  
“Gawain, I’m still…”  
  
“I love you.”  
  
***  
  
Guinevere stretches every morning as the sun spills into her window, warming her skin as she performs intricate twists and positions that demand her to be flexible. Lately, Arthur has been sleeping with her at night and wakes in the morning to watch her stretch. This morning, however, he studies her intently as though a hawk waiting for its prey to give in to a moment of weakness.  
  
“Arthur, stop,” she commands tersely, rolling her eyes.  
  
“Why did you ask me that?” he demands, rising from the sheets and grasping for his bedshirt, putting it on hastily. “Of all the questions you saw fit to ask, why did you ask me that one?”  
  
“I wanted to know the truth,” Guinevere replies simply, scrambling to her feet. “And the truth is what I received.” She kisses him on the forehead. “Thank you.”  
  
“Lancelot is out of our lives,” Arthur protests. “Why did you ask?”  
  
“Because you were never honest with me!” she shouts. “Arthur, this is your one chance to be honest and be able to blame it on something else. Were you in love with Lancelot?” she continues sharply.  
  
“I…” Arthur begins, trailing off and pacing about the room. “Yes!” he yells. “Yes,” he says, quieter. He sits down upon the edge of their bed and hangs his head. Guinevere laughs quietly, sympathetically because she knows that Lancelot bears no threat to her anymore. She moves to sit down beside him and puts her fingers on his chin, lightly raising it until she can look him in the eyes.  
  
“Tell me about him,” she requests gently.   
  
“He was my Knight.”  
  
“He was more than that,” Guinevere adds. “Tell me about him.”  
  
Arthur smiles wistfully while she wraps her arms around his waist and leans in close, pressing her lips to his shoulder. She listens to him taking in deep and even breaths, obviously being very deliberate about which truthful words will be said and which won’t. Finally, he turns and presses a kiss to the top of her head.  
  
“He understood me like none of the other Knights could,” Arthur finally says. “He would take my anger and my frustration and all the rage I could not take out through faith and he would absorb it so gracefully.” She tilts her head upwards to look at him and watches as the smile slowly spreads on his face. “He was everything that I could love and never feel guilty about it. He was…it was right. It was perfectly right up until the end when the Romans became more demanding and everything became more complicated in that last year.”  
  
“It sounds like it was lovely,” she murmurs.  
  
“For a while, it was,” Arthur admits. “But when it was terrible, it was hell on earth.”  
  
“I’m sorry that he’s gone,” Guinevere consoles and is surprised to find that she actually is sorrowful about his missing presence. “I wish I could have known him better, he seems to have been such a large part of your life.”  
  
“He was…”  
  
Before Arthur can continue, someone bursts through their door in a mad frenzy, slamming it shut. They both look up and Guinevere groans to herself when she sees that it’s Gawain. She thought she had specified a rule about knocking, but he doesn’t seem to care. She tightens her sleeping shirt around her and watches as Gawain frantically paces the room, each step calculated.  
  
“What’s going on?” Arthur asks with worry.  
  
“Galahad has gone,” Gawain snarls.   
  
“Didn’t you try and stop him?” Guinevere speaks, not out of concern for Galahad – though she’s sure he’s a fine enough lad – but more out of concern about the ritual. She has a feeling that whatever had happened will have to be reversed and Galahad’s blood seems to have played a key role in this madness. “I have a feeling we might need him.”  
  
“ _I_  need him,” Gawain snaps at her before shifting his attention to Arthur. “I tried to stop him. Trust me. I told him everything. I told him I loved him.” He gives a great cry of frustration. “Arthur, the next time you feel a desire to see or talk to Lancelot, do not involve me, and do not involve him,” he warns tersely, pacing about the room. “I’m going after him and I am going to forcibly drag him back here and show him exactly why he should stay, no matter how I have to do it.”  
  
“Good luck!” Guinevere calls after him.  
  
“He needs it more than I do,” Gawain mutters as he storms out of the room. He slams the door behind him and leaves both of them in silence. Guinevere begins folding over the cover of the bed, pressing her lips together and waiting until the thoughts of the moment seem to have passed from Arthur’s mind.  
  
“And how was Lancelot in bed?” she asks with an innocent smile.   
  
Arthur glowers at her. “Better than you,” the words slip out and hit Guinevere where they make her physically recoil. Perhaps, she realizes, she hadn’t been expecting that particular answer. A part of her, however, is just disappointed that she’s missed out on finding out firsthand. She settles for a good slap across Arthur’s cheek before continuing with her morning stretches.   
  
***  
  
By the time Arthur and Guinevere make it out to the tavern to find Bors, it’s already made it to mid-day. Arthur makes it to the table first and sits down heavily, looking up to find Bors staring down at him with a grin.  
  
“Why in God’s name are you so cheerful?”  
  
“I found something out,” Bors confides. “Nora, firecracker, get over here!” he shouts over to the bar. She finishes pouring a drink and makes it to his side, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Watch this,” he tells Arthur and Guinevere. “Vanora, is Lancelot the father of the children?”  
  
“Every one,” she replies with a calculated grin.  
  
“Are you telling me…?”  
  
“He wasn’t,” Bors cuts Arthur off. “She can lie,” he says slowly, raising his eyebrows. “She can lie, but we can’t, so that means that it’s not affecting everyone. There’s got to be an answer. I say, we grab the whelp, we get another dark artsy spell going and we spill his blood one more time, for old times’ sake, aye?” Bors grins madly.  
  
“We can’t,” Guinevere bites out, crossing her arms.  
  
“What’s the matter?” Bors challenges her. “Afraid of a little more blood?”  
  
“I am not afraid of a little more blood,” she snaps at him, mocking every word she’s echoed. “The problem is that your whelp,” she snarls, “is gone.”  
  
“Gone?” This gets Bors’ attention. He turns quickly to Arthur. “Gone where?”  
  
“Gawain is after him,” Arthur tiredly explains.   
  
“Good,” a new voice joins their crowd. They turn to find Merlin standing there, flanked by two people on each side. “We need him to close the ritual.”  
  
***  
  
When it all comes down to it, Gawain is about two times stronger than Galahad and they both know it. That’s why, when Gawain has pinned Galahad to the ground, snaking his knees around his hips and pinning his arms by the wrists, Gawain knows that Galahad won’t be going anywhere.  
  
“You left me,” Gawain snarls accusingly.   
  
“I told you I would!” Galahad protests, writhing. “Gawain, get off,” Galahad shouts, thrusting his hips upwards in a desperate last attempt, but all that does is remind Gawain of three nights ago and instead of moving, he assaults Galahad with biting kisses, sucking and nipping at Galahad’s neck, making marks. “Gawain,” he moans now.  
  
“Shut up,” Gawain orders, his hands groping downwards and pressing down into Galahad’s crotch, grasping for the erection as his mouth messily meets Galahad’s for a wet kiss. Gawain forces his hands to clamp down harder when he feels Galahad fight against him. When he needs air, he pulls back and yanks Galahad to his feet. “Like it or not, you are staying with  _me_  because you are mine.”  
  
“Gawain, I want to go home,” Galahad protests, his eyes wild and wide.   
  
“I am your home,” Gawain turns and shouts at him. “These aren’t lies, Galahad. They can’t be, and I know you’ve noticed that. I love you, and you’re in love with me, and I claimed you as mine and you are going to stay that way!”  
  
“Gawain,” Galahad murmurs, shaking his head. “I just wanted to go home, just once.”  
  
“You went without me,” Gawain replies coolly, walking towards Galahad and snaking his hands just inside his breeches, tugging him closer. “You aren’t supposed to go without me. If you had told me, I would have gone with you!”  
  
“I didn’t,” Galahad begins to yell, but when Gawain pulls him so close that they can feel each other’s breaths, he clears his throat and quiets himself, “know that,” he finishes with an apologetic smile. Gawain looks at him and uses his free hand to caress the side of Galahad’s face, watching and memorizing the look on Galahad’s face when he leans into the touch. “Gawain,” he murmurs again. “Gawain, I’m sorry.”  
  
“You need to come back,” Gawain states. “You need to come back because my home is there for the moment and I need you.”  
  
“And you love me,” Galahad grins.   
  
“And I happen to love you,” Gawain laughs, pulling him closer and resting his forehead on Galahad’s. “Besides, Guinevere thinks that we’ll need you to end off this truth madness. I think it may have to do with your blood. I’ll be glad when it’s over. Arthur and Guinevere both look as though they might murder each other and possibly me as well.”  
  
“It’s done us some good,” Galahad comments, not moving out of Gawain’s grasp.  
  
Gawain nods. “Let’s go home.”  
  
***  
  
They return to find Guinevere waiting for them, sitting spread-eagle in her breeches. Gawain is leading the way, aiming to head straight to Merlin and get this travesty over with. She looks straight past him and studies Galahad, raising an eyebrow. She shakes her head and begins to make chiding noises.  
  
“Oh my,” she heads straight to Galahad. “What happened!” she asks with mock concern. It’s an ugly tone in her voice, and it makes Gawain roll his eyes.  
  
“Gawain couldn’t keep his mouth off me,” Galahad replies evenly, picking up his pace and overtaking Gawain – Gawain has a feeling he really doesn’t want to answer any more questions. Gawain slows, smiling pleasantly, feeling just  _fine_  to answer any questions she might have about just who Galahad belongs to.  
  
“And my hands,” Gawain admits. “I groped him and then I kissed him, and then I may have groped him again.”  
  
“What,” she scoffs, “did you maul him when you found him?”  
  
“Yes,” Gawain replies politely, walking quickly to join Galahad as they arrive at the door to Guinevere’s quarters. He holds it open for Galahad and they step inside to find the room exactly as it had been before. In fact, the same cold chill runs through Gawain’s spine at stepping inside. Guinevere shuts the door behind her. Gawain immediately presses his hip to Galahad’s, as though they are fastened together, and stays there even as Merlin approaches them and hands Galahad a sharp dagger.  
  
“We shall proceed,” Merlin announces, striding away.   
  
Bors joins them while Guinevere makes her way to Arthur’s side – neither of them truly looking at the other. Gawain exchanges a quick, anxious glance with Galahad when Merlin begins to chant slowly, just as it had happened before.  
  
“I won’t lie to you ever,” Galahad swears quietly to Gawain. “I just want you to know that before the hex is removed.”  
  
“And I’ll be truthful to you,” Gawain says, surprising even himself when the words pass his lips and they are actually true. The objects in the room have begun to shift and shake again and Gawain grasps onto Galahad’s arm with his hand to keep him from moving forward with the pull. Bors looks around and gets down to the floor, anticipating what’s coming next as he binds Galahad’s feet to the ground with his hands.  
  
“We come here,” Guinevere translates, her hands grasping onto a table. “We come here to seal off the path to the truth. Let us not be bound, let us not hold our words true. Let all be normal.”  
  
The rift in the room tears open again and with it, it brings a howling gale that Gawain finds deafening. He shuts his eyes tightly, barely aware that people are shouting all around him. Arthur is yelling at Galahad, Guinevere is shouting to her father, and Merlin is shouting to no one in particular. Gawain opens his eyes and turns to Galahad, watching as Galahad stares nervously into the centre in the middle of the room and then down at the dagger pointed at his hand.   
  
“Seal it!” Merlin shouts above the deafening noise. Galahad stares uneasily into the depth, the knife against the palm of his hand and glinting coolly. Gawain keeps close to him, affected by the tug of the rift. His other hand slips and steadies himself on the small of Galahad’s back. Bors seems to be having trouble down on the ground, binding Galahad’s ankles to the floor to make sure he isn’t disrupted in their ritual. “Seal it now!” Merlin shouts.  
  
Galahad closes his eyes.  
  
And with one sure stroke, he makes the incision into his hand.   
  
He holds his hand up to the rift and they all watch as droplets of blood fly towards the hole. “We end these magicks!” Merlin cries out loudly and then, just as it had happened before, everything goes silent. Gawain loosens his grip on Galahad as Bors gets up from the ground, brushing himself off. They all look from one to another, no one ready to speak just yet.  
  
“Well?” Gawain asks apprehensively.  
  
“I slept with Tristan, Dagonet, Percival, Gareth, Bors, Arthur and Vanora,” Galahad announces loudly and then gives a crooked grin of glee, turning and assaulting Gawain with a tight hug. “It worked!” he crows with joy, parting from Gawain and ripping off the sleeve of Gawain’s shirt to bandage his hand without so much as even asking.   
  
“Tristan?” Gawain asks, raising an eyebrow, unable to quell the jealousy.   
  
“Just once,” Galahad replies quickly and quietly.   
  
Gawain smirks, cuffing Galahad upside the head. “I also only slept with him once.” He flinches when he realizes that everyone else is staring at them. He puts on a pleasant smile and leans in a little closer to Galahad. “Care to make our coupling more meaningful than each of our night’s with Tristan?” he comments under his breath, through the gritted teeth of his smile.   
  
“So long as you get me out of here,” Galahad replies quietly. Gawain doesn’t hesitate to yank him by the wrist and storm out of Guinevere’s quarters, just as the sound of Bors threatening Merlin, and Guinevere and Arthur bickering begin to flood his ears. The sound of the door slamming shut behind him is the most beautiful sound Gawain has heard in the past few days; the most gorgeous sound, save for the truth.   
  
He’d never known he would enjoy honesty so much. Of course, when it comes in the form of Galahad kissing him feverishly and murmuring that he loves Gawain, it isn’t half-bad, really.  
  
THE END  
  
  



End file.
